


No Need to Rush

by Sarah_Sandwich



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Harley Keener as Iron Lad, Hurt Harley Keener, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Protective Peter Parker, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, bickering as a love language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29959023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Sandwich/pseuds/Sarah_Sandwich
Summary: 5 times Peter almost says I Love You (but Harley does instead) + 1 time they both say it(Yes, it's a needlessly complicated take on this trope but it's my needlessly complicated take on this trope)
Relationships: Harley Keener/Peter Parker
Comments: 11
Kudos: 114





	No Need to Rush

~ **1** ~

Harley closes his eyes and shuts out the living room spinning around him. The only thing keeping him grounded is Peter’s boneless dead weight against his side, his cheek propped atop his shoulder.

“Hey Harls,” he says, jaw working against his shoulder. His breath is warm against his neck and goosebumps break out down his arms despite the body heat boiling off and building between them.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Thanks for today. Glad you were there.”

What should have been a fun stress-free day off turned into a frantic battle against sentient flying creatures that flooded the city from a wormhole in the sky. Instead of _Peter and Harley_ taking a stroll through the museum, Spider-Man and Iron Lad fought back wave after wave of the hairy six-eyed beasts while ushering civilians behind closed doors. Instead of going to the movies, they teamed up with the Avengers to hold a perimeter and keep the beasts contained while the others either blasted them to bits or chased them back into the wormhole. Instead of game night with Ned and MJ, they teamed up with Tony to slap together a device to override whatever was holding the wormhole open.

Instead of a quiet walk home in the muggy summer heat under the soft yellow glow of the street lights, they stumbled in through the fire escape window in the wee hours of the morning—too tired to cook, too tired to bathe, too tired to do anything but collapse their sweaty grimy bodies on the couch with every available junk food item they could scrounge up in their apartment while the AC blasts away the sticky August heat and the TV cycles through the same season of Man vs. Wild that’s been looping all week.

“I didn’t do nothin’ special.”

As much as it sucked, it was a pretty typical day for Spider-Man and Iron Lad.

Peter grunts like he disagrees but says, “Sorry we didn’t make it to the MOMA.”

He’s lived in New York for almost half a decade and has barely made it to half of the must-see tourist attractions. The Museum of Modern Art should be one of the easier ones to cross off his list and yet…

“Maybe next time.” He pats Peter’s leg but then runs out of energy and just leaves his hand on his thigh rather than trying to lift his arm again.

His bones have been yanked out and replaced with pea gravel. Every bit of him aches. His suit only absorbs so much of each impact, leaving him rattling around inside like loose tic tac. Not to mention the exacting form required to fly like he and Tony do. Any time he’s stuck piloting his armor for more than an hour or two he comes out of the suit feeling like he got a full-body massage from a meat tenderizer.

Eyelids drooping, he slumps further against Peter, his breathing turning slow and even until he’s on the brink of sleep. He nearly drops off when something soft and warm grazes the underside of his jaw.

He startles awake, jerking upright, then groans as his muscles protest the sudden movement.

“Sorry! I thought you were— Not that that makes it better but— Sorry…”

“Huh?” he squints blearily down at a blushing Peter but he can’t make heads or tails of the past few seconds. He rubs his dry eyes. “Wassamatter?”

“Nothing,” Peter says too quickly. “I’m, umm, going to go to bed.”

“Oh,” he says, disappointment washing over him. “Okay.”

As Peter stands, his hand slips from its perch and falls to the empty cushion he leaves behind.

“You should move to your bed,” Peter tells him. “You’re going to get all stiff if you sleep out here.”

He lets his head fall back onto the back cushion so he can see Peter’s face and says, “I don’t think I can move.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Alright, hold on.”

He vanishes beyond his field of vision then returns a handful of seconds later hauling the pillow and Harley’s biggest fluffiest blanket. “At least get horizontal.” He tosses the pillow onto the end of the couch. “Come on.”

He groans as he tips sideways and his muscles and joints protest every movement until his head hits the pillow. Peter lifts his legs by the ankles and deposits them on the couch before draping the blanket over him with a flick of his wrists.

“Thanks,” he mutters into the pillow.

Peter tucks it around his shoulders and under his chin. He’s only inches away when he says, “I should have insisted on that ice bath. You’re going to be locked up and sore for days.”

“Eh,” he says, squinting up at him with one eye. “I’ll suffer. ‘S fine.”

With every slow blink, his eyelid slips further and further shut as the blanket sinks warmth into his chilled skin.

Peter stays squatting beside him. “You shouldn’t have to,” he says and smooths away a wavy lock that threatens to fall into his eyes. “Harley, I…”

He turns his face and forces both eyes open as some distant part of him recognizes the warmth on his cheek as Peter’s hand. He leans into it and loses the fight against his eyelids as they flutter shut over dry stinging eyes. “Hmm?”

“I… Goodnight.”

“Night, Pete,” he says, giving in to the desperate pull of sleep at last. “Love you.”

~ **2** ~

He doesn’t see the rocket until it’s too late.

Bullets are flying and red glowing shit is zooming all over the place but he’s above it all, staying out of it, the eyes in the sky keeping track of their people and swooping in as backup for anyone who looks like they could use it. He turns to check on Tony and—

_Bang!_

Something slams into his chest and the world explodes in a flash of orange searing heat.

He groans, flat on his back in a heap of rubble with no memory of leaving the sky or hitting the ground.

 _“Harley!”_ a distant voice screams.

Pete?

His chest is in agony—all red-hot fiery pain with a sharp pricking stab for every breath he takes. He tries to lift his arm but he’s either weaker than he should be (even after a crash landing) or the suit’s offline.

 _“Harley!”_ that voice screams again, echoing all around him.

He blinks hard and realizes he’s inside one of the warehouses laying in a pile of shattered wood that might have once been shipping pallets. High above, blue sky winks at him through a jagged hole in the ceiling.

Shit.

 _“Harley!”_ Peter screams, closer now.

A series of gunshots rattle the air and throb through his skull.

“Here,” he murmurs weakly, too afraid to draw in a deep enough breath to shout. Something is _wrong_ in his chest. It shouldn’t hurt like this. He licks his lips and tries to find a gap in the gunfire. “Pete, I’m here.”

He can’t get any volume but those super ears must be putting in the work today because a moment later, a Hydra agent flies across between the stacks of pallets surrounding him before coming to an abrupt stop as he hits the floor with a sickening crack and doesn’t move. Spider-Man rounds the stack of pallets next, the eyes on his mask narrowed into furious slits until he catches sight of him and they flare wide.

“Harley,” he breathes and sprints the distance between them before crashing to his knees. “Oh God, Harley.”

“Hey, darlin’,” he greets softly.

“You’re alive,” he chokes. His hands hover over him like he wants to help but doesn’t know what to do. “Fuck, Harley. I was so— I saw you— I thought—,” He cuts off with a sob.

“Hey.” He tries to lift his arm again and he grits his teeth as pain spikes through his chest. “Don’t cry, honey. I’m a little banged up but I’m—,”

Peter sits up straight. “Yeah, I’m with him,” he says hoarsely, presumably to the Avengers on the comm. “He’s awake but his suit is shut down. That’s why he wasn’t answering. Yeah. Yeah, he needs an extraction. Okay, standing by.” Peter releases a shuddering breath and hunches over with his hands clenched on his knees.

“Pete?”

“Sorry.” Peter sucks in a forceful breath and sits up. “I just— Can I take off your faceplate? I need to see you. I just… I need to see you.”

“‘Course.”

He digs his fingers into the thin groove separating the faceplate from the rest of the helmet and squeezes. Metal groans then crumples and gives away as he pries it free.

He blinks rapidly as cool air rank with smoke and gunpowder hits his sweat-soaked face.

“Harley.” Peter says it like it was punched out of him. “Shit, you’re pale. How bad are you hurt? Tell the truth.”

He wants to make a joke, anything to ease the panic from Peter’s voice, the tension from his shoulders, but talking hurts worse than breathing, and breathing is starting to hurt pretty bad.

He licks his lips with a dry tongue and says, “Been better. Chest hurts. Breathing hurts.”

“He’s having trouble breathing,” Peter snaps. “Where the hell are you guys?”

“Hey, look at me,” he says with all the force he can muster, ignoring the sharp stab of pain in his chest and the whistle in his throat that’s growing more pronounced with every passing second. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

“You don’t get it,” Peter hisses. “I can’t lose you, too. I lo—,”

The wall blasts apart and Iron Man tears through the opening. Outside, guns fire and people scream but the sounds remain distant. Tony hovers, turning in place before locking onto them and rocketing over.

“Somebody call an emergency extraction?” he asks, voice ringing metallic through his helmet. His faceplate flips back and he takes Harley in with his own eyes. “Christ, kid. You love wrecking my shit, don’t you? Wrecked my suit, wrecked my kid in the suit—,”

“Wrecked your kid out of the suit,” he says, flicking his eyes toward Peter. “Three birds, one rocket. New record.” He tries a smile but it feels more like a grimace. His chest burns.

“I’ll make you a trophy while you’re stuck in the medbay for the next week.”

He pulls a face but doesn’t risk a groan. His head is spinning.

“The suit should keep you stable enough for transport, even in the deactivated state, but yell if something feels wrong, okay?”

“‘Kay,” he agrees even though he doesn’t think he could yell if his life depended on it… and it sorta does.

Tony drops to one knee and carefully wedges his arms under his legs and back.

“Pete,” he says before Tony lifts him. “Do somethin’ for me?”

“Anything,” Peter says without hesitation.

“Kick some Nazi ass.”

Peter lifts the bottom of his mask so he can see his sharp toothy grin. “On it.”

The wheeze that passes between his lips might have been a laugh under different circumstances. “Fuck, I love you,” he says, but there’s no air to carry the words past his lips. Still, he thinks Peter catches him. Those super ears have to be good for more than helping Peter make fun of all his bathroom noises.

“Alright, kids. All aboard the Iron Express,” Tony says. Then he stands, lifting him against his chest while his suit remains stiff and straight as a board. With a blast from his boot repulsors, they shoot into the air.

~ **3** ~

_“You’re not listening! I love you too much to risk you like that again!”_

“Boo,” Harley jeers and throws a handful of popcorn at the TV just as Peter steps out of the kitchen.

Peter scowls. “I swear to God if you can’t sit still and not jostle your ribs, I will web you still.”

He rolls his eyes and sits back against the couch. “Yes, _mother.”_

“Shut up and take your medicine.”

He accepts the warm bottle of Gatorade and the alarmingly large pill. “I think you like it when I’m loopy and stupid.”

“Of course I do,” he says as he perches cross-legged on the middle cushion and pulls the blanket until it covers both of their laps. “Have you ever been anything else?”

He swallows the pill and caps the Gatorade. “Sick burn.”

“Hold on.” Peter frowns at the TV. “Since when are they together?”

“Since two seconds ago. Apparently, he’s been in love with her the whole time even though they’ve barely said two words to each other in three seasons.”

“Typical.”.

“You know they forced it so people would stop shipping him with Eddy.”

Peter snorts. “Because that always works. They better not kill him off. I like Eddy.”

He hums in agreement and stuffs a handful of popcorn in his mouth before offering the bowl to Peter who digs out a handful of his own.

“How’re you feeling?” Peter asks around his mouthful. “Any less sore than yesterday?”

“A bit. More uncomfortable than painful now.”

“Good. It’s not the same without you on missions. Just me and the old people.”

He snickers. “Another three days and I’ll be up and around again.”

“‘Up’ better not mean off the ground,” Peter says with a sharp side-eye. “I don’t need another heart attack because you pushed yourself too fast.”

He puts a hand to his chest. “Oh my. Am I getting a self-care lecture from the guy who routinely picks fights while concussed?” He rolls his head to the side and levels a dry look at Peter. “I’m honored. Truly.”

Peter rolls his eyes and tunes back into the TV.

Harley tries to do the same but that familiar drugged fog is rolling over his brain and his limbs are growing loose and heavy as his eyelids droop. He’s sick of sleeping. All he does anymore is eat, shit, and sleep. He’s tired of only being awake for a few hours at a time before blacking out for half the day. Not that it matters because Peter has been unusually serious about ensuring he follows the doctor’s orders to the letter, that no-fun Nancy.

“Harley?” Peter shifts and his knee brushes his thigh.

“Hmm?”

“I just… There’s something I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s… I don’t want to make anything awkward but I’m… I think I’m in lo—,”

“Fuck!”

Peter jumps. “What?”

“They killed Eddy, those bastards!”

Peter swivels back to the TV. “Oh come on!”

“Turn it off,” he grumbles. “Don’t wanna watch this garbage anymore. Eddy was my favorite.”

“No one respects the best friends to lovers trope anymore,” Peter says as he stretches for the remote on the opposite armrest.

“Exactly,” he agrees vehemently as the screen goes black and the anguished cry as the body is discovered is cut short. He lolls his head to the side and finds Peter eyeing him critically. “What?”

“We should get you to bed. You’re done for.”

“Too late,” he says. “I’m jelly. Not— No, I’m a goo person. I’ve got goo in my bones.”

Peter cracks a smile. “Goo in your bones? That’s not right. You should see a doctor about—,”

“Don’t,” he says, his tongue is clumsy and unwieldy, a sure sign that the meds are going to knock him out soon. “Don’t threaten me.”

Peter snorts and gets to his feet, taking the popcorn bowl from his lap in the same motion. “Lay down, idiot.”

“I’m doin’ it because I want to, not because you said to,” he mutters. The blanket fights him every step of the way while Peter stands there and smirks at him, but eventually, he gets horizontal and is more exhausted than ever for the effort. He tries to tug the blanket over himself but his hands aren’t gripping right. He gives up and falls back.

“Need help?” Peter asks, not even trying to cover his amusement.

“All the help you can give and then some,” he says baldly. “I’m a mess.”

He chuckles and tucks the blanket around his feet and under his chin. “But you’re my mess.”

“Mmm.” His eyes seal shut as the fog in his brain grows in density. “Love that.”

“Love what?”

“You,” he says simply. His body is heavy but he’s no longer in it. He’s somewhere above it, connected only by the thinnest tether as he rides the air currents.

“Harley…” Peter says in a strange tone.

“Remind me,” he says thickly. “When I wake up, remind me I want pancakes.”

“You don’t like pancakes,” Peter says softly.

He grunts and then he’s very very far away.

~ **4** ~

The jostle of the crowd, bright pops of color under a sea of canopies, the jingle of tags on dog collars, the sweet scent of cinnamon hanging in the air only to be covered by the spicy aroma of frying meat a few steps later, laughter, drumming, shouting, a distant ukulele—One thing New York never lacks is life and Harley drinks it in like a cactus in a rain shower while beside him, Peter’s scowl has never been darker.

“Are we done?”

“Still need tomatoes,” he says, distracted as he scans the various stalls set up along the side of the road. The farmer’s market here at once puts Rose Hill’s to shame and will never measure up. Here it’s almost a festival but the quality of the produce always leaves a lot to be desired. Luckily, over the years he has managed to hammer down which vendors give the most bang for their buck.

“We’ve passed like six tomato carts,” Peter gripes as he shoulder-checks a middle-aged man who doesn’t make room for them both to pass. The man shoots them a dirty look over his shoulder but the look Peter sends him is nastier so he keeps walking.

“Martina is in a different spot this year.”

“They’re _tomatoes._ What’s it matter who we buy them from?”

They’ve gone round and round on this before and he’s never succeeded in impressing upon Peter how flavorless the tomatoes here are. How they don’t have a scent. Back in Tennessee he never cared where they got their produce, but here in New York, he swears some of it is secretly plastic. Tony understands and agrees with him but Peter eats out of dumpsters so he’s a lost cause.

“Hers are the best,” he says.

Peter scowls up at him, cheeks aglow from the sun.

Without much thought, Harley sweeps his ball cap off his head and wedges it onto Peter’s, snuffing out his sour expression like a candle. “Stick close,” he says, then dives into the crowd, dodging around groups standing and chatting in the middle of the street and trains of people meandering from one side of the road to the other. He slips by a woman perusing a tower of sunhats and all the while, Peter dutifully dogs his heels with a canvas bag slung over each shoulder.

Finally, he spots Martina’s signature hot pink tent and makes a bee-line for it. As he picks out a few good tomatoes and chats with her about her new location and its proximity to the little square where the musicians set up, Peter hovers. He trods on his feet at least three times and only once on purpose.

“Peter, I swear to God.”

“It’s _crowded._ Hurry up and pay so we can get out of here.”

He rolls his eyes while Martina grins into her shoulder as she counts his change.

He accepts the bills and says, “Have a good one.”

“You too. See you boys next week,” she adds with a wink for Peter.

Peter mutters darkly under his breath but Harley ignores him and steps back into the flow of people in the street. They make their way past the central hub of the market and the crowd thins enough that Peter falls into step beside him. _“Now_ can we go home?”

He eyes the mango-on-a-stick stand on the other end of the street and sighs. The line stretches down two stalls. There’s no way. “Yeah, we can go. Never say I don’t do anything for you though.”

Peter’s shoulders slump in relief but then he slows and then stops and turns to him. “Harley?”

“Yeah?” He looks down at him and finds Peter standing so close the toes of their sneakers are nearly touching. He tweaks the bill of his hat because he can. “What’s up, slugger?”

“Can I tell you something serious?” he asks, looking up at him from under the bill.

“Is it about the prices at that jam stand because that woman was out of her—,”

“No,” he says, too loud. “It’s not about the— Just, listen okay?”

He softens. “Honey, I always listen to you. Just say it.”

For the love of _God,_ just say it.

“Fine. I’m—,” He pulls in a deep breath and says, “I know you do stuff for me, like, all the time.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “Just like you do for me.”

“Right, but I just— I want you to know that I… Well, I do it because I lo—,”

Someone crashes into him from behind and he nearly crushes Peter as he stumbles forward. Or, well, he would if Peter wasn’t Peter. It’s more like hitting a brick wall than a person as their chests crash together and Peter catches him by the waist.

“The hell—,”

They turn as one and catch a glimpse of the back of a dark green hoodie charging through the crowd.

“Someone stop her! My _jam!”_

Peter sighs and looks up at him with an apology written in the furrow between his brows.

He offers a half-smile. “You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t. Don’t worry, I’ll still love you no matter how many times you ditch me.”

Peter’s face creases with frustration and he sweeps the hat from his head and slaps it onto Harley’s. “It’ll only take a minute.”

“Take your time,” he says, adjusting the cap, eyes already on the mango stand. “No need to rush.”

~ **5** ~

Opposite him at the workbench, all of Peter’s attention is focused on the web-fluid in front of him. He loves watching him when he gets like this. He’s completely dialed in as he measures, pours, and stirs various chemicals with sure, practiced movement. His lips are pressed together in a firm line and his eyebrows are low over serious eyes. He’s beautiful like this—Peter Parker in his element. The only time he’s more graceful is when he’s flipping and swinging through the city.

“Okay,” Peter says, jarring him from his hypnotic state as he pulls his gloves off with a snap. “Don’t let me forget to stir it again in—,” He lifts his head and their gazes lock. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

He doesn’t straighten up from where he’s slouched with his elbow propped under him, fist in his cheek, a forgotten gauntlet strewn across the table in front of him mid-upgrade. “Cuz I want to and you can’t stop me.”

Peter sparks with challenge and leans over the workbench separating them. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhmm,” he says, not bothering to hide the smile that curls his lips.

Peter holds up his index finger as though in warning and Harley raises his eyebrows. Waiting. Expectant. Curious to see where he’s going with this.

Peter stares him dead in the eye then sticks his finger up his nose.

His elbow slips as he throws his head back and bursts out laughing.

“I win!” Peter says, smug as he wipes his finger on his jeans.

“What is _wrong_ with you? Why would you do that, you weirdo?”

“To win, _duh.”_

“You’re an idiot.”

“But I’m _your_ idiot.” He freezes as his brain seems to catch up to his mouth and his eyes flare wide. “I mean—,”

“No take backsies!” he says, grinning. “You said it. I own you now. You’re mine.” His heart pangs and that familiar longing swamps over him, but he pushes it back into the box deep inside him. Not much longer now. He can be patient. They’re close but Peter isn’t quite—

“Harley,” Peter says, oddly serious. “I umm… I want you to be—,”

He holds his breath and his eyes don’t leave Peter even as Peter looks everywhere but at him.

“I mean, if it’s okay, I want you—I want _us_ to—,” He huffs, frustrated, and runs a hand through his hair. “What I’m trying to say is, I lov—,”

_BLAP!_

He has just enough presence of mind to shield his face as the beaker between them erupts. His heart thunders as he flashes back to the last time he was caught up in an explosion. Pain and fire, waking up on the ground unable to move, barely able to speak and breathe. It took over a month before he felt back to himself.

“Harley.” Peter’s hand closes around his forearm and grips him tight. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Breathe, sweetheart.”

Only then does he realize his hands are trembling and the burning in his chest isn’t from the explosion. He sucks in a sharp breath and blinks, taking in the lab around him and Peter across from him. Everything is covered in sticky white webbing, thousands of thin delicate strands hanging from the ceiling, the cabinets, the workbenches, Peter.

Peter squeezes his forearm. “You with me?”

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Always.” He clasps his free hand around Peter’s wrist and takes comfort in the warmth of his skin and the steady pulse underneath. “But I’m not helping you clean this up.”

“You were supposed to remind me to stir it,” Peter says, but he’s lacking his usual exuberance and instead is searching his face.

He squeezes his wrist to reassure him. “I never agreed to that. Tony is gonna flip if this isn’t gone before he gets back from dinner with Pep and Rhodey.”

Peter makes a face. “I need my dissolv—,” He moves to pull away, but the skin of Harley’s forearm tries to go with him, tugging sharply. They both look down at their hands—Harley’s on Peter’s wrist, Peter’s on Harley’s forearm, both covered in quickly drying web fluid.

Peter looks up at him with something like misery in his eyes.

Harley sighs and says, “You’re lucky I love you.”

~ **+1** ~

It takes hours to get the lab cleaned. They stumble and bicker their way around the lab until they finally manage to open the cabinet with the dissolver in it without getting stuck to anything else.

…well, for the most part.

Harley towels his hair dry and then throws said towel into Peter’s chest. “I still can’t believe you got stuck to the chair. Aren’t you supposed to be a web expert by now?”

Peter glowers at him and tosses the towel blindly at the hamper peeking out of his closet. It misses and lands amongst the science tees on the floor. “I _told you,_ it wasn’t finished. It doesn’t stick to me when it’s _finished.”_

“Excuses, excuses,” he tuts, throwing himself onto Peter’s bed. It stinks like sweat and hot garbage. He turns onto his side and props his head on his hand and watches Peter thunder around the small room, moving things seemingly at random, too full of pent-up frustration to sit still.

It’s beyond time to put an end to this.

“Why are you so pissy? Quit stomping around like a toddler. If you’ve got something to say to me, fucking say it.”

“I’ve been trying to say it for weeks!” Peter snaps.

“Well what’s stopping you?” he snaps back.

“Everything!”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth then asks lowly, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty fucking—,”

He sits up and says all in one breath, “You’re sure you haven’t been dragging your feet and chickening out every time?”

Peter goes still and stares at him wide-eyed.

“Just _say it,_ Pete. What do you think I’m gonna do, huh? Run away screaming? I say it all the time.”

His temper flares. “I know you do and it pisses me off.”

Hurt spikes through him, lancing his chest and bleeding down to his toes. Peter’s been tiptoeing around this conversation for months and—although it’s been frustrating to not push him, to let him come at this from his own angle at his own pace—he’s never been hurt by Peter’s uncertainty. He never took his hesitance to heart. “You don’t want me to say it?” he asks. His voice comes out too quiet, too strained.

Peter zeroes in on it. “No!” he blurts. “I mean, _yes,_ I want you to say it. It— It pisses me off that it’s so easy for you. You can just— You don’t—,”

“Peter,” he interrupts. “I love you.”

Peter glares again. “Stop it! Now you’re showing off.”

“You’re supposed to say it back, idiot.” He stands up and stalks across the room. “Come on, try it. I love you, Pete.”

“Harley,” he says weakly.

He shoves him and Peter stumbles. “Wrong. I love you.”

“Cut it out,” Peter says, shoving him back.

“No. I love you.”

He shoves him again but this time Peter doesn’t move and glares up at him in defiance. “You’re an ass.”

“And yet you love me.”

Peter falters. “I—,” Hands in fists, he shakes his head and turns away. “Why are you making this so hard?”

“You’re the one making it hard, dumbass. You say it to May and Ned all the time. I’ve heard you say it to MJ too _and_ Tony. Why—,” His voice breaks. “Why won’t you say it to me?”

“It’s different.” Peter looks up at him solemnly. “You know it’s different.”

“But it’s true. Isn’t it?”

Peter searches his face. “Yeah,” he finally breathes. “Yeah, it’s true.”

He puts his hands on Peter’s hips. “Then say it,” he says softly.

“I…” Peter licks his lips and exhales a trembling breath.

He manages a flickering crooked smile as his heart beats in his ears. “It’s just me, Pete.”

Peter keeps his chin tucked to his chest and bites his lip. At last, he whispers, “I love you. Harley.” He looks up, face drawn and serious as he says, “I’m in love with you.”

Relief washes over him and the smile that tugs his lips is mirrored back to him on Peter’s face. “Thank fuck. Can I kiss you?”

In answer, Peter places one hand on his cheek and the other around the back of his neck and brings their mouths together himself. Their lips crush together and Harley drinks him in, every taste, every movement, every breath. A heady feeling rises inside of him until his head spins and all he can think is more, more, more. His world drills down until all that’s left is Peter. The heat of him pressed against his chest and under his hands, the hunger behind his kiss, the sweet scent of his shampoo.

Peter breaks the kiss first and he has to hold back from chasing his lips and drinking him down until they’re one and the same.

Peter laughs breathlessly and looks up at him with an embarrassed smile. “That was— Wow.”

“Why are we talking?” he demands. “Stop smiling so I can kiss you again.”

Peter laughs, beaming wider.

“Okay, now you’re doing it on purpose.”

Peter looks up at him, still smiling, and says, “I love you.”

His heart squeezes, relief and joy radiating from every cell in his body as he leans in close and says, “I love you too. Now pucker up, pretty boy. You’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.”

Peter laughs and their next kiss is no good because neither of them can stop smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Serotonin Wednesday! Thanks for reading! Come find me on tumblr @sarah-sandwich!


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